


The Sound Has Just Begun

by Chiomi



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Complete crack, Fluff and Crack, M/M, Sheriff Stilinski Knows, This is crack, Werewolf Stiles Stilinski, lycanthropy is an STI
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-27
Updated: 2013-07-27
Packaged: 2017-12-21 11:34:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/899823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chiomi/pseuds/Chiomi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things don’t ever really come to a head: there’s no big, dramatic confrontation where they shout about their feelings, no one throws anyone into a wall and follows up by kissing them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sound Has Just Begun

**Author's Note:**

> This happened because of a conversation about whether or not an alpha has to have intent to turn someone. Because of Gerard, we concluded no. Everything degenerated from there.
> 
> Thanks so much to AlwaysBoth for the beta.

Things don’t ever really come to a head: there’s no big, dramatic confrontation where they shout about their feelings, no one throws anyone into a wall and follows up by kissing them.

Derek’s just in his room one evening, reading A Storm of Swords, and Stiles doesn’t startle. He smiles tiredly, and lobs the dirty clothes from his lacrosse bag into the hamper and drops the bag and his backpack in front of the closet. Then he drapes himself over Derek’s shoulders in more of a flop than a hug.

Derek curls a hand over one of his arms, stabilizing him. “You know how illegal it would be, right?”

“Yep,” Stiles says, directly into Derek’s henley. “Felony, for you. And it’d be another thing to lie to my dad about. But we could die - like, actually die - and that means something, and this means something, and I don’t - laws seem stupid, in the face of that.”

Stiles slides off Derek, not provocative, just exhaustedly boneless, his split lip violent against his pallor, and leans back against the side of his bed and draws his knees up. “But it’s not just me, and it’s you on the line, so we can go back to ignoring it, or we can put it off, or I can try to let it go. Just warning you, though, dude: I’m really, really bad at moving on.”

Derek looks up from the book, finally, and closes it without marking the page. He looks back down at his hands. “Yeah.”

“Yeah what? You know I need more words than that.”

Derek smirks, small and private. “Yeah.”

Stiles glares at him. “I would totally hit you with a pillow if it weren’t too far to reach.”

“Yeah, I want to do this. You’re right, it means something - though you know I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.” Derek’s eyes are serious on him.

“I know,” Stiles says quietly. This should feel momentous, this first time they really talk about it, but it doesn’t. It feels like coming home, like a tiny readjustment to make things a little better, like settling into place. He’s known Derek would die for him since long before they were . . . whatever they are now. “Come on, you should get in bed with me so we can cuddle while I pass out for the next six hours.”

Derek stands and puts the book down and offers Stiles a hand up. “Sounds exciting,” he says, dry as dust.

Stiles pats him reassuringly on the overdeveloped pectoral. “Don’t worry, I’m going to be all over this when I haven’t just gotten back from my forty-third consecutive hour awake.” He toes his shoes off as Derek unbuttons his jeans, and contemplates taking his socks off, but judges them too far away.

Because Stiles is a brilliant mastermind who plans ahead, he’s already wearing sweats, and just pulls back the covers and crawls in.

“I wasn’t complaining,” Derek says, crawling in after him and wrapping one arm around Stiles’ middle.

*  
He wakes up stickily warm and tangled around Derek. More precisely, Derek’s smooth, naked chest. He’d gotten rid of his shirt at some point during Stiles’ epic nap, which is kind of typical, and it looks like he’s slept, too, from the state of his hair. He’s awake, though, and reading A Storm of Swords again, and Stiles just curls closer, because nothing feels urgent, not yet, but it’s perfect. He’d be okay with waking up like this all the time, even with the cloying heat.

He’s got an erection, a pretty direct physiological result of sleeping cuddled next to the hottest dude in existence. He’s also got permission, though, so Stiles smiles and rolls his hips, rubbing his dick against Derek’s thigh.

Derek smiles, not putting down the book, and runs a hand over Stiles' shoulders. “You're sure?”

“Sure that I'm awake enough to do filthy things to you with my mouth? Getting there.” Stiles has been sure of this thing between them for months, ages, aeons. The only thing that could stop him now is if Derek has changed his mind.

Derek puts down the book on the headboard, and leans over very carefully. Their lips slot together like habit, like it's not the first time, and it's soft and tastes of morning breath. Stiles knows – he knows, okay, that Derek's got some justified reservations, but he doesn't want this to be something Derek has to overthink or feel guilty about. This is good, every part of it, and he wants to make Derek feel good, so he sets about it with a will.

**

Stiles wakes up because he can smell Derek’s aftershave and bacon, and Derek shouldn’t still be here, especially if his dad is cheating on his diet and making bacon. He scrambles upright, and no, Derek’s gone, everything just smells like him and spunk and sweaty clothes and furniture polish and motor oil and rubber and bacon and grass and soil and dog shit and tea and - fuck. Stiles breathes slow and controlled, because if what he thinks is going on is actually going on, he cannot freak out. Freaking out is not an option. It is a non-option He fumbles for his cell phone and knocks it off the bedside table, and then somehow catches it, which is, yeah, pretty good confirmation.

He closes his eyes and breathes, and pictures that heart rate monitor. He pictures Derek, too, talking about control. Derek who he’s never seen shift without meaning to. The thought helps him calm down, and, wow, he’s reaching Scott levels of pathetic, if Derek’s his anchor already. He’d thought that if this ever happened, he’d use his dad or his mom or the vicious need for control that gets him through some of his panic attacks. But nope, he’s apparently a complete sap, and Derek’s the one who keeps him human. There’s a painful irony there.

He calls Derek, who picks up on the second ring and says, “Stiles.”

“Hey. I think we have a problem.”

It’s surreal as hell that he can hear Derek’s heartbeat kick into overdrive. “What’s wrong?”

Stiles flexes his hand, trying to see if it feels different, if he feels any more powerful or can sense claws. “Apparently lycanthropy is an STI.”

There’s a pause, and then Stiles can hear the Camaro accelerate, as clearly as if he were there. “I’ll be right there.”

“My dad’s here, you idiot.”

“Stiles.” Derek sounds incredibly alarmed, and Stiles remembers what Scott was like, how he’d thrown Stiles into a wall and clawed up the chair even before he believed he was a werewolf.

“No, I’m not having control issues, I haven’t - I’m just smelling things. Lots of things. All of the things. Christ, I need to do laundry. But no, I’m good, I have an anchor, I haven’t even clawed ethe shit out of any furniture.”

Stiles can hear the effort Derek’s putting into not asking what his anchor is, and rolls his eyes. Derek says, “Okay. We need to tell your father, though.”

“We can? Finally?”

Derek pauses again, and his voice is quieter and less urgent when he says, “I hadn’t known you’d wanted to.”

“It wasn’t my secret. I was waiting - you know what, doesn’t matter, since it’s my secret now. He’s sleeping now, but as soon as he wakes up.”

“I’m almost there.”

“Dude, I’m not going to attack my dad,” he snaps.

“Would you rather I not be there?”

Stiles swallows his initial response. “I - yeah, actually, it’d be good to have you here. We should talk, anyway, since - you didn’t know this would happen, right?”

Derek makes a choked noise. “If I had - I - fuck, Stiles, you know I’d have said.”

He feels his shoulders unknot, and takes a deep breath. “Yeah. Yeah. Okay. Sorry.”

Derek comes through his window a couple minutes later, and stands there, awkward.

Stiles smiles wryly at him. “In hindsight, it kind of makes sense, if it’s usually conferred from saliva to blood. They just never covered lycanthropy in health class.”

Derek’s face gets broodier and more awkward, and he looks like he’s ruined something. “I know you didn’t want it.”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay.” Stiles crosses to him, puts a hand on his jaw. Derek smells ridiculously good up close like this. “It might not have been at the top of my to-do list, but it’s not the worst thing ever. Or it won’t be, as soon as I’ve done laundry.”

Derek leans his forehead on Stiles’ and breathes in. Stiles keeps babbling, mostly for his own reassurance. “And Deaton can actually, like, leave the vet clinic to be our magical backup if we need it. Or Peter - your creepy uncle still knows things, and I bet Lydia would be happy to learn magic if she’s got any kind of spark, even if it’s mostly to werewolf-proof her house. I’m gonna be way less breakable like this, you won’t have to worry about me so much, isn’t that great?”

Derek wraps a hand around Stiles’ bare hip, and they stand there for a moment, curled around each other. “I’d undo it if I could.”

His heartbeat’s steady and hypnotic. “I know,” says Stiles.

He waits until he can hear that his dad has coffee before he goes downstairs and slides into the chair opposite. His dad looks at him over his glasses, then puts down the paper. “Stiles.”

Stiles smiles, a little sick to his stomach. His dad hasn’t trusted him, not really, in over a year. “So, Dad, werewolves exist.”

“Uh-huh,” he says, unimpressed.

“And there are two kinds - you can either be born as one, or changed. Scott was bitten in January, did I tell you that? Scott’s a werewolf. Let’s talk about Scott.”

“Who bit you?” His dad’s voice is sharp, and - okay, wow, werewolves weren’t a surprise, then, if he’s shifted gears this fast.

“Well. Apparently it’s any bodily fluids? And we’d kind of thought that with werewolf healing being what it is -”

He takes off his glasses and sets them on the table. “Stiles, were you having unsafe sex with a werewolf?”

“Well, that depends on how you define unsafe.”

His dad runs a horrified, defeated hand down his face. “I define it as you and this girl -”

Stiles doesn’t think he makes a noise, but his dad stops abruptly anyway. “Boy? I guess you did try to tell me outside Jungle.”

“Actually, that time I was there following a lizard monster. But, uh, yeah. Man, maybe? He’s, uh, a little tiny bit older than me.”

It’s a relief, kind of, that his dad’s heart doesn’t beat any faster. His eyes narrow, though. “Hale,” he says, and it’s not a question. His heart picks up, then, and his eyes narrow. “The animal attacks -”

“Totally not Derek! The werewolf who bit Scott was kind of nuts.”

“Stiles, all of those deaths were connected to the Hale fire. I know you don’t want to think -” and wow, this is slipping into unproductive territory.

“Peter,” Stiles blurts. “Peter Hale went kind of nuts. There was no plastic surgeon, just a lot of crazy, and then resurrection. We never - we never did anything we didn’t have to.”

“We?”

Stiles looks down at his hands, at his hands that look completely human right now, but have held on to death and blood and magic, been changed by those things more than by this change, and then nods. “Yeah. It’s been ‘we’ since way before this happened. I’m pretty invested.”

“He’s here, isn’t he?”

“Uh.”

“If he learned anything from his mother, he wouldn’t leave a new beta alone. And that’s what the deal with Scott was, wasn’t it? Come on down, son.”

“Uh.” Stiles deflates. “Yeah, Derek, might as well.”

Derek softly treads down the stairs, but Stiles can pick up minute shifts in the wood, now, and the steady approach of Derek’s heartbeat.

Stiles’ dad runs a hand down his face. “And you never even asked about werewolves, never thought to mention them?”

Stiles looks at his hands, and is glad that Derek’s almost there. “It wasn’t my secret,” he says, and then Derek lays a hand on his shoulder.

He can tell without looking that his dad glares daggers at Derek, and Derek slips his hand away and takes the chair next to Stiles.

“No, don’t sit,” his dad says. “You boys are making me pancakes and bacon while I tell you the ground rules for the next fourteen months, and then we’re going to find you an anchor, Stiles, so you’re not a menace on the full moon.”

“I, uh, already have one,” Stiles says, pointedly not looking at Derek, Derek whose suddenly pounding heart he can hear and whose happiness he can _smell_.

His dad looks between them, then drags a hand down his face. He looks at his coffee, then at the two of them, and points at Stiles. “I want six pieces of bacon, and not a word about my health.”

Derek helps, and makes eggs, too, and it’s like they’ve been at this a million years, and Stiles never wants it to end.


End file.
